


Happy New Decade

by PyrrhaIphis



Series: Holiday Fics [4]
Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, Fireworks, M/M, New Year's Eve, Rock Concert, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-19 14:44:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13125867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyrrhaIphis/pseuds/PyrrhaIphis
Summary: Curt Wild will be performing live on New Year's Eve, 1979, but Arthur Stuart--still relatively new in New York--has a girlfriend and a fear of returning to his glam days, so he doesn't think he should go see his erstwhile idol.  (But you know he will anyway!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please let me know if you spot any inappropriate Americanisms in Arthur's dialog or POV. Thanks! :)

24 December, 1979

 

            As he sat down to his meagre breakfast, Arthur put aside the front page and turned the inner section of the paper to the commuter news.  Buried on the third page—nestled among adverts for clothing, shoes and last minute Christmas gifts—was his article on yesterday’s minor subway accident.  Not that there was anything about the article to indicate he’d written it:  not only did it not have his name on it, it didn’t even have a “Staff Reporter” by-line, as if editorial wanted the readers to think the article had simply appeared out of the ether, unaided by human hands.  It wasn’t really anything to be proud of, in any case.  Maybe he’d be more ashamed if it _did_ have his name on it.

            Still, he didn’t feel that his co-workers—or even his boss—at the _Herald_ were taking him seriously.  No one did.  No one ever had.  Why had he ever thought that would change?

            Idly, he flipped through the pages open before him as he sipped his tea.  His gaze lingered a long time on an advert for a travel agency.  It was showing photos of exotic beaches in faraway ports, but all Arthur could see was the airplane in the centre of the ad.  Part of him longed to board one and go back home.  At least he had a few friends there, which was more than he could say for New York.

            The only reason he could think of to stay was that he couldn’t afford the bloody plane ticket.

            Forcing himself to turn the page again and remove the taunting airplane, Arthur found another advertisement taunting him.  He wasn’t even sure if it was presenting him with a reason to stay in America, or a reason to flee back to England.

            It was reminding everyone that there were only a few tickets left to the New Year’s Eve concert to be held in one of the trendier hotels off Times Square.  The main act wasn’t one Arthur cared for in the least.  But the opener was Curt Wild.

            Just looking at his name in the dim newsprint was making it hard for Arthur to draw breath.

            It was over.  That part of his life was over.  The world was already a different place.  There was no room in New York City for that kind of behaviour.

            Curt wouldn’t remember him anyway.

            He had probably shagged thousands of teenage fans in his day.  Why would he bother to remember any of them?  Especially one as pitiful as Arthur.

            “You’re up so early!”  Denise’s voice was the only thing that broke Arthur out of his mournful reverie.

            He closed the paper hastily, and turned to look at his girlfriend.  “I’m not up early; you overslept.”

            Denise shrugged.  “I’ve got the day off work, so what’s that matter?”

            “I don’t.”  More senior staff at the _Herald_ had the day off, but not Arthur.  He wasn’t even having Christmas itself off.  Though at least that meant that if anything major happened, he would get a big break…

            “You’re going to be back in time for the party tonight, right?”

            “What party?”  Surely Denise wasn’t planning on hosting a party in her flat?  It was bigger than Arthur’s embarrassing little hole in the wall, but it wasn’t really fit to hold more than four or five people.

            Denise let out a groan, and tossed her long blonde hair.  “I _told_ you!  My office is holding a Christmas party this afternoon!  There’s a big raffle and shit.  You’ve _got_ to come.  None of the girls at work believe me when I tell them how cute you are!”

            Arthur did his best not to grimace.  Somehow, being called ‘cute’ or ‘pretty’ by a girl never felt as flattering as it did when the same thing came from a bloke.  “When does the party start?”

            “Four.  Or was it three-thirty?”

            “I can’t get off work that early.”

            Denise scowled at him.  “Well, when _do_ you get off tonight?”

            Probably not at all, judging by the anger on Denise’s face.  “Not until seven or eight, unless things go unexpectedly well,” Arthur sighed.  “No one in the office most of the day but us low-level flunkeys.”

            “Then there’d be no one to see you sneak out early.”

            “You’re very naïve if you think the others wouldn’t tell the editor.  Anything to get ahead.  Isn’t that the New York motto?”

            Denise laughed nervously, sitting down at the table.  “Well, _someone_ got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning!”

            No, he got up on the wrong side of the _ocean_ this morning.  But there wasn’t anything to be done about that, so Arthur ignored her, and went back to eating his breakfast.  He didn’t say anything else until he was about to leave for work.  “I’ll probably just head back to my own flat tonight,” he told her.  “I’m expected early tomorrow morning.  No point in disruptin’ your sleep.”

            “Is your name secretly Cratchett?”

            Arthur scowled at her.  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

            “C’mon, seriously, who works on _Christmas_?!”

            “Lots of people.  If there’s to be a paper on Boxing Day, then there’s got to be people writin’ it on Christmas,” Arthur pointed out.

            “But don’t they have any employees who are Jewish or something?  You know, people who don’t celebrate Christmas anyway?”

            Arthur shrugged.  “Bigger papers do, I’m sure.  But we don’t ‘ave that many to begin with.  Look, I’ll be late if we keep arguin’ about it.  I’ll call you from work tomorrow.”

            Denise hurled a few unpleasant epithets at him as he was leaving, but Arthur was pretty sure she didn’t mean most of them.  Probably.


	2. Chapter 2

25 December, 1979

 

            “Hey, wake up!”  A slender hand was shaking Arthur’s shoulder, rousing him from a beautiful dream about being alone on the roof of the world with Curt Wild.

            With an unhappy moan, Arthur opened his eyes, then sheepishly sat upright.  He’d fallen asleep on his desk?  How embarrassing!  “Sorry,” he said, turning an uncomfortable smile towards the man who had woken him.

            Teddy Chang was a very pretty young man working his way through journalism school.  Arthur had tried dropping a few hints that he was interested, early on, but he’d quickly learned that Teddy only fancied women.  Probably just as well; as soon as Teddy got his degree, he’d hop it to a better job, and who could blame him?  The _Herald_ wasn’t exactly the finest paper in town.

            Currently, Teddy was shaking his head, looking disappointed.  “I thought you were actually serious about this job,” he sighed.

            “I am,” Arthur insisted, though that wasn’t entirely accurate.  It was his job, and he was serious about keeping it.  He didn’t actually _care_ about it, though.  He just wanted that paycheque to keep him from ending up on the streets.

            “Sleeping on the job isn’t very serious.”

            “If there was anything to do, I’d be doin’ it.”

            Teddy sighed deeply.  “Yeah, I hear that,” he agreed.  “Anyway, me and the guys downstairs were gonna send for takeout.  You want in?”

            “Sounds good,” Arthur agreed.  “Where?”

            Teddy shrugged.  “Mac was thinking Indian, and John wants sushi.  I’m not sure, myself.  What’s your vote?”

            “I wouldn’t mind a good curry.”

            “Okay, Indian it is.  What kind?”

            Arthur contemplated that a moment.  There was a difference between a _good_ curry and just any old curry.  But he’d probably sound like an ungrateful arse if he demanded to know which Indian restaurant they were going to order from—there were at least two in delivery range of the _Herald_ offices, and one of them was awful—so he wasn’t sure if there was anything he could do about it.  He’d just have to pick something less likely to be badly made.  If only he had any idea what would fit that bill!  “Chicken vindaloo, I suppose,” he eventually said.

            Teddy nodded.  “Not sure how much any of it costs, so you’ll have to pay up after it gets here.”

            Arthur agreed to that, and Teddy headed off to talk to the others.  As soon as he was gone, Arthur went over to the coffee pot and filled a mug to the brim with the stuff, hoping it would keep him awake.  Then he went to the nearest desk with a phone—he was too far down the ladder to be trusted with his own phone—and gave Denise a ring.

            “Hello?”  Denise sounded a bit like she had a head cold.

            “Is something wrong, Denise?  You sound awful.”

            “You son of a bitch!” she shouted at him.  “Where were you last night?!”

            “I told ya I was goin’ back to my own flat!”

            “I called you at dinner time, and you weren’t there!”

            “I was still at work,” Arthur sighed.  “I didn’t get home ‘til nearly nine.  I _said_ it’d be late.”

            “And are you even going to show up at all today, or do I have to spend Christmas _all alone_?”

            Arthur’s grimace made him glad that Denise couldn’t see his face.  “I can come by after work, if you want me to,” he assured her.  “But don’t you have family in town?”

            “No, they went on a fucking cruise without me,” Denise moaned.  “Just because I couldn’t get the time off work!”  She made a noise of disgust.  “So when are you going to be done there?”

            “Hard to say.  Most of the little features were done yesterday, or even the day before.  But we’ve got to wait to see if anything’s like to happen in the world.  And if there’s any obituaries to write.  That sort of thing.”

            “Ugh, you never told me you write _obituaries_.”

            “Someone has to!” Arthur exclaimed instinctively.  “I—I’m not usually the one who—”

            “When are you going to be done there?” Denise repeated, her voice razor sharp.

            “Probably by five or six,” Arthur sighed.  “Barrin’ any major events takin’ place.”  A major development in the hostage crisis in Tehran, for example, might keep him at work until the wee hours.  Also might make his career, which gave him a momentary, selfish desire that something _would_ happen.

            “Fine.  Dinner is at seven, sharp,” Denise announced.  “If you miss it, then tomorrow I’ll be shopping for a new boyfriend!”

            “Denise…”

            She hung up on him before Arthur could get out another word.  Nothing like a little melodrama to make the holidays special, he thought with a weary sigh.

 

***

 

            Fortunately—or perhaps _un_ fortunately—nothing happened to keep Arthur at work late, and he made it to Denise’s flat with nearly half an hour to spare.  Thankfully, he had left her Christmas present behind at her flat days ago, waiting there for her to open it and pretend to be excited by the cheap little earrings that had been the only ones he could afford.  He had _wanted_ to give her some better makeup than what she usually wore, but had reflected she might take offense at having her deficiencies with makeup pointed out to her.  Also, he was a tiny bit worried that she might wonder just why he knew so much about makeup.  The idea of what she might do if she ever found out that he used to _wear_ the stuff was terrifying…

            Dinner was roast quail in orange sauce, with American-style apple pie for pudding.  The quail was exquisitely prepared—Denise _was_ trained as a chef, after all—but it didn’t feel very like Christmas to Arthur.  And as to the pudding…apple pie seemed entirely inappropriate to Christmas, and Arthur had just never developed a taste for the American way of preparing it.  He knew better than to say so to Denise, though.  Especially when she’d been so upset with him earlier in the day.

            Following dinner and presents—Denise had bought him a leather satchel to carry his notebook and such in, a surprisingly practical gift from a girl who could be so very flighty—they settled down on her waterbed and turned on the telly that rested across from the foot of the bed.  After flipping through the channels and not finding anything they wanted to watch, all pretence at a holiday atmosphere was dropped in favour of snogging.  If there was one thing Denise was _really_ good at, it was snogging.

            After a while, Denise seemed to grow tired of it, and pulled away from Arthur’s lips.  “I never got a chance to tell you about the office Christmas party,” she announced.

            “Now?!”  Did she have any idea how unpleasant it was to have to sit there with a stiffy and pretend to be interested in some idle chatter?

            “Yes, now!  I told you there were going to be raffles, right?”

            “Yes, but can’t this wait?”  Arthur slid his hand up her thigh, moving it well up under her skirt.  It wasn’t fair of her to get him so turned on and then demand to have a _conversation_ instead of sex!

            “Don’t be so horny!”  Denise shoved his hand away.  “You’re not an American, you know!”

            “What’s _that_ got to do with anything?!”

            “English men are supposed to be genteel and refined, not horny, grabby perverts like American men,” Denise informed him.

            “Maybe a hundred years ago,” Arthur sighed.  “Even then, it’d only be the upper classes who were really—”

            “ _Anyway!_ ” Denise snapped, cutting him off with an alarming ferocity.  “I didn’t want to waste my precious money on lots of raffle tickets, but there was a prize I just _knew_ you’d want, so I _had_ to enter at least once!”

            Arthur bit back a question about why any of this was relevant.  He knew perfectly well that she wouldn’t have brought the subject up unless she’d won _something_ , but her timing was painfully irritating.

            “And guess what?” Denise prompted, her face beaming with giddy happiness.

            “What?” Arthur supplied.  It was the answer she wanted.  That was clear.

            “I won!” Denise exclaimed, pulling an envelope out of the drawer of the bedside table.  “Look!  Grand prize!”  She set the envelope in Arthur’s hands.

            He opened it, and carefully removed the contents.  Two tickets to the concert on New Year’s Eve.

            Two tickets to see Curt Wild.

            Arthur’s erection had become even larger than before, but suddenly he had lost all interest in Denise…

            …no.

            No, he couldn’t…he couldn’t do this.  He _shouldn’t_ do this.

            He’d make a fool of himself.  Expose himself.  Lose not only his girlfriend, but his job, maybe even his life.  The audience at that concert would be crazed with drink, and ready to turn to a fight against anyone they didn’t like.

            He slipped the tickets back into the envelope, trying to think of what he could possibly say.

            “Don’t pretend you don’t want them,” Denise cooed in his ear.  “You only have every single one of his records.”

            “You’ve been goin’ through my records?!”

            Denise just giggled at him, and stroked him through his trousers.  “Aren’t you going to tell me I did good?” she breathed into his ear.  “Aren’t you going to thank me _properly_?”

            “Of course I am,” Arthur assured her, putting the envelope down on the table before kissing her with all the passion he wanted to give to Curt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it's just because I've read the screenplay now (which implied that Arthur is actually gay, rather than bisexual), but somehow writing something this close to a love scene between Arthur and a woman feels really, really wrong.
> 
> Regarding the apple pie thing, I went to England in 1995 with my family, and we all *still* sometimes go on about how awful English apple pie is. But I figure that must go both ways, right? English people must find American apple pie just as appalling, because it's so unlike what they're used to apple pie being. (And, in all honesty, I'm sure the English style apple pie is a perfectly acceptable dish, so long as your mouth isn't expecting the cinnamony sweetness of an American one.)
> 
> And yes, Arthur is overreacting drastically as to what might happen if he went to the concert. Maybe he's feeling paranoid due to lack of sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

December 31st, 1979

 

            Playing a gig on New Year’s Eve wasn’t a bad idea, as such.  But _this_ was not the gig Curt wanted to be playing.  A fucking hotel?  Was he really already a has-been?  And he wasn’t even the main fucking act!  He’d already been a star when those punks were still in kindergarten!  What motherfucker came up with this idea?  And why the hell had he let Rachel talk him into doing it?

            Right.  She said she wouldn’t let him keep fucking her if he didn’t.  _And_ she threatened to turn him over to the cops.  Even though it wasn’t like he was really—he wasn’t the fucking mess he’d been seven years ago!  Sure, he still used a little, now and then, but not like before.  If he’d gotten away with it when he was perpetually so high that he could barely function, it would suck balls if he ended up getting arrested when he barely shot up once a day.

            Still, as he took the stage, Curt couldn’t help getting swept up in the excitement of the performance.  The audience was being _really_ vocal.  They were probably all just drunk shitheads, but they were acting as though they loved him.  It was hard not to play it up when they were screaming and acting like they wanted to mob the stage just to get to touch his skin.

            About halfway through his set, Curt noticed there was a guy down front who _wasn’t_ screaming, wasn’t waving his arms.  Wasn’t doing shit, in fact.  Just staring at Curt like some kind of fucking ghost.

            Once he’d seen that, Curt couldn’t stop looking at the guy.

            What the fuck was his problem?  If he didn’t like the music, why was he right down front?

            Shame, too.  He was actually really hot.  Definitely Curt’s type.  But if he was interested, surely he wouldn’t just be standing there staring at him with an expressionless face.

            Would he?

            Something was nagging at Curt.  Like maybe he’d seen that guy before.  Or maybe just been stared at like that before.

            But when?  Where?

            Curt was so distracted that he fumbled the lyrics of the song he was singing.

            That guy down front’s expression finally changed.  He looked like he’d just seen his puppy get run over.

            So he _was_ a fan.

            Too interested to let himself show anything.

            The memory was like an itch Curt couldn’t scratch.  He’d definitely seen that guy before.  But if he couldn’t remember a face that pretty, it must have been a long time ago that he’d seen it.  The guy looked young—early twenties probably—so he’d barely have been more than a kid…

            A pretty face, staring.  Blank but intense.

            Soft brown hair stained with a fading blue.

            Images flashed through Curt’s brain, rushing in between his eyes and the world.  A beautiful boy in purple and blue.  A London rooftop.  A sweet ass and soft moans of delight.

            Shit, was _that_ who that guy was?

            In the pause between numbers, Curt checked him out as best he could.  It definitely could be him…

            Curt stepped over to his band.  “Hey, change of plans,” he said.  “We’re gonna do ‘Gimme Danger’ for our last number.”

            “Why?”

            “’Cause I fucking said so!”

            “Fine, whatever.  It’s a popular number.  Should go down good.”

            “Then don’t complain, motherfucker!”  Curt flipped off the band, then resumed his position and waited for his cue.

            As the song started, a giddy smile passed over that beautiful face down in the audience.

            Yes!  Curt had been right!

            And he was going to fuck that sweet ass again tonight.  Nothing was going to stop him.


	4. Chapter 4

            “Hey.”

            Arthur’s eyes had been shut in bliss, but they opened again at the sound of the warm voice behind him.  Beyond the window glass and his hands pressed up against it, he could see fireworks erupting above the city.  Midnight.

            “Happy New Year,” Curt’s voice whispered in his ear.

            Arthur looked back over his shoulder, with a wide smile on his face.  “Happy New Decade,” he corrected.

            “Yeah,” Curt agreed, even as he resumed his rhythmic thrusting.  “This is gonna be our decade,” he moaned.  “Just watch.  The eighties are gonna be all about you and me, baby.”  As he spoke, he slipped one hand around to caress Arthur’s throbbing erection.

            “Oh, Curt…”  Arthur wanted desperately to say something more, to produce flowing words of love that would at least hint at everything he was feeling in this moment.  But all his mouth would produce were wordless groans of pleasure.

            Somehow, Curt was able to keep talking, producing so many beautiful words, even as the continued actions of his cock and hand brought Arthur to a mind-altering, explosive climax.  Curt had his own orgasm seconds later, while Arthur was still shuddering with delight.  Within minutes, they had laid down in the bed, kissing and talking quietly before gently drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms.

            Arthur’s blissful sleep was rudely disrupted by the sound of a woman’s voice shouting “What the _fuck_ is going on in here?!”

            He opened his eyes even as he felt Curt’s warmth disappearing from his side.  As Arthur sat up, he saw Curt approaching the woman who had come a few feet into the hotel room.  The woman was a beautiful redhead who looked vaguely familiar, though Arthur couldn’t quite place her.  Whoever she was, her face was contorted with rage.  She wore a mink coat over a sequined sheath gown that had probably cost thousands.

            “ _This_ is how you decide to start a new year—a new decade?” the woman demanded, crossing her arms, an act that pushed up her already ample bosom and made it look even larger.  “By cheating on me?  And with a _faggot_?!”  Shite, that was right; Curt had a girlfriend.  It had been in all the gossip columns when he started seeing her.  Rachel Wheelock, the socialite-turned-underwear-model.  Must have been the clothes that were throwing Arthur; like most people, he’d only seen pictures of her in her underthings.

            “I’ve been fucking men a lot longer than I’ve been fucking women,” Curt informed her, shaking his head.  “You oughta be grateful I stuck with you as long as I did.”

            Rather than reply, Rachel slapped him.  Arthur couldn’t entirely blame her for that.  Curt wasn’t exactly being apologetic.  Arthur made a mental note to be certain to be _extremely_ apologetic when he explained to Denise that he’d be leaving her for a man…

            Curt rubbed his cheek for a moment, then laughed.  “If that’s all the fury Hell’s got, I guess I’ve got nothing to worry about.”  He shook his head.  “If I left any shit at your place, call my manager to come pick it up.”  Then he turned and started walking back towards the bed, heedless of the growing fury on Rachel’s face.

            Rachel grabbed a lamp off the nearby dresser.  Arthur tried to shout out a warning, but too late:  Rachel brought the lamp down hard, smashing it over Curt’s head.  Then she dropped what was left of the lamp and ran out through the still-open door to the hall.

            Arthur jumped out of bed and hurried over to Curt’s side.  He had collapsed to his knees and was swearing profusely as he rubbed the back of his head.  His hand came away bloody, making him swear all the more.

            Curt let Arthur help him back to his feet, then he headed over towards a small duffel bag that was resting on a table.  From within it, he withdrew a needle and other drug paraphernalia.

            “What—what are you doing?!” Arthur exclaimed.

            “It’ll deaden the pain,” Curt said, getting a needle ready.

            “Curt, I think we should get you to hospital,” Arthur replied, gently pushing the hand with the needle in it away from Curt’s arm.  “And you don’t want to have drugs in your system when you go in, do you?”

            Curt’s eyes narrowed.  “You think you can tell me what to do?” he demanded.

            “Of course not,” Arthur assured him.  “I’m just worried about you.  What if she’s given you a concussion or something?”

            “You take a bitch like that seriously, and you’re just gonna encourage her!” Curt shouted, gesturing violently with one hand, with the fortunate side effect of sending the needle flying across the room.

            “That doesn’t make any sense,” Arthur said gently.  “See, you’re not thinking clearly because of the head injury.  Let me call for an ambulance, and—”

            Before Arthur could even finish his thought, Curt’s eyes rolled up in his head and he pitched forward, unconscious.  Arthur did his best to catch him, and gently laid him on the floor of the hotel room.  Once he was sure that Curt was breathing regularly, Arthur picked up the phone and was about to dial for the police when he realised it was already ringing.

            “Front desk,” a rather resentful voice said once the ringing stopped.

            “Oh, uh, I need an ambulance,” Arthur told the man at the desk.

            “Has something happened to you, sir?  Which room are you in?”

            “Not to me.  It’s—this is the penthouse—it’s Curt Wild who—his girlfriend smashed a lamp over his head and now he’s blacked out.”

            “I see.  I’ll send for the police right away, sir.  But to whom am I speaking?”

            “Ah—my name’s Arthur Stuart,” he answered in a shaking voice.  “I was just—Curt just asked me up to—um—watch the fireworks…”

            A snide chuckle over the line informed him that his excuse wasn’t the least bit convincing.  He _really_ shouldn’t have given his real name.  “I’ll inform the police right away,” the man at the desk said, before hanging up.

            Hastily, Arthur began putting his clothes back on.  He’d gotten as far as his trousers when he suddenly realised that there wasn’t time for clothes.  He had to get the drugs out of the room before the police arrived!

            After retrieving the needle, Arthur picked up the bag with the rest of the drugs and paraphernalia, then hurried out of the room and down the stairs to the floor below.  Finding a public rubbish bin, Arthur dumped all the illegal contents.  If the police found them and dusted them for fingerprints, Curt might still get in trouble, but hopefully they wouldn’t think to look there.

            Once the incriminating evidence was disposed of, Arthur ran back up the stairs and finished putting his kit on.  Trying to get Curt into _his_ clothes proved more of a challenge, and he hadn’t quite finished getting him into his trousers by the time the police and the paramedics arrived.  They all had quite the laugh at Arthur’s—and Curt’s—expense.

            While the medics were giving Curt a quick check, Arthur made his statement to the police.  Given what he’d been doing when they arrived, he didn’t even bother lying about why he had been in Curt’s room, or what had been going on when Rachel arrived.  They grilled him extensively about what _else_ they had been doing, particularly if they had been using any drugs.  Arthur didn’t think he had said anything to let slip that Curt had _almost_ injected himself with heroin or whatever had been in that needle, but the police kept giving him shifty glances that told him that they were suspicious of him one way or another.

            When it was time for the ambulance to take Curt away, the police agreed to let Arthur go along in the ambulance, but they insisted on having his telephone number, address and his full employment details.  Though if anyone at work found out about any of this, Arthur had a feeling he wasn’t likely to be employed much longer…


	5. Chapter 5

            Curt had regained consciousness in the ambulance, but he hadn’t been at all lucid.  Arthur had tried to explain to him what was going on and where he was, but he wasn’t sure Curt had taken any of it in.  As soon as they arrived at the hospital, Curt was wheeled into a room to have the shards of glass and ceramic removed from his scalp, leaving Arthur alone to wait for him.

            Once the procedure was done, Curt was placed in a private room to be kept under observation.  As soon as he was permitted to do so, Arthur went into the room, and found Curt propped up in bed, scowling at the room’s puny television.  His clothes had been replaced with a paper hospital gown, and a bandage was wrapped around his head, with bits of his long, bleached hair sticking out between the layers.

            Curt smiled at him, and pressed the button to shut off the television.  “You okay?” he asked, as Arthur sat down beside the bed.

            “That’s my line,” Arthur replied, with an attempt at a smile.  “You’re not badly hurt, are you?”

            “They said it wasn’t anything serious,” Curt said, with light shrug of his shoulders.  “My head hurts like hell, though.”  He reached one hand up and set it gently against Arthur’s cheek.  “I’m just sorry you had to see that.”

            “It’s okay,” Arthur assured him, holding onto Curt’s hand with one of his own.  “But I do hope you don’t ‘ave to see something similar,” he added, trying to laugh.

            “Is she the jealous type?”

            “Pretty much,” Arthur sighed.

            “You serious about her?”

            Arthur shook his head as best he could without dislodging Curt’s hand.  “Less than a week ago, I was fantasisin’ about goin’ back to England.  Denise didn’t factor in those plans at all.”  Except, perhaps, as one of the things he wanted to escape from.

            “You still want to go back?”

            “Not unless you’re plannin’ on goin’ back for some reason,” Arthur said, smiling at him.

            Curt let out a happy sigh, and withdrew his hand, using it to take a drink from the cup of water on the table beside his bed.  “Um…did the cops…am I gonna get arrested as soon as I’m out of this bed?” he asked slowly.

            Arthur smiled.  “Of course not.  Why would you?” he asked, then leaned in close to whisper in Curt’s ear.  “I got rid of the drugs before they got there.”  Normally, ‘under observation’ just meant having nurses come by to check on you for a while, but in this case…who knows, maybe the room was bugged.  Better not to take chances.

            One of Curt’s big hands cradled the back of Arthur’s head, and guided it to Curt’s lips for a brief but intense kiss.  “Close the door,” he said after their lips parted.

            Arthur glanced over at the door to the hall, and realised he’d left it open when he came in.  He nodded, then hastily shut it.  When that was done, Arthur sat down on the side of the bed, and practically fell into Curt’s embrace.

            It was the most intense kissing Arthur had ever experienced.  Intense and beautifully passionate.  Lips pressed up against lips, tongues probing and exploring, teeth nipping lightly, hands caressing backs and tangling in hair, bodies pressed together with such heat that Arthur wouldn’t have been surprised if the bedding ignited around them.  It was crushing when Curt gently pushed him away.

            “What’s wrong?” Arthur asked, hoping he wasn’t whining.

            “It’s too much,” Curt said, his voice low, almost a groan.  “I need more.”

            “What?”  Arthur felt his confusion was justified considering the contradictory nature of what Curt had just said.

            “A quick blowjob maybe,” Curt suggested, with an irrepressible grin.

            Arthur glanced at the enormous bulge where Curt’s erection was ballooning out the sheets of the hospital bed.  “But…the door doesn’t even lock…”

            “No one’ll come in,” Curt urged.  “I really need it….”

            In a moment of panic, Arthur surveyed the room, hoping for a “Do Not Disturb” sign.  He didn’t see one, but he did see a pad of paper, which he used to make his own sign.  After hastily putting it on the doorknob, Arthur returned to the bed, where Curt had already moved the sheets and his paper gown aside.

            Gently, Arthur stroked the prodigious erection as he got into a comfortable position to take it into his mouth.  He contemplated asking Curt if the hospital staff had washed his cock while they were getting him undressed, but somehow he couldn’t make his mouth say the words.  Besides, surely he wouldn’t have asked if they hadn’t, right?

            As he took Curt into his mouth, Arthur became intensely aware that the hospital staff absolutely had _not_ washed anything.  If he’d known that, he would have suggested a hand job instead.

            But…well, it wasn’t like it was the first time he’d had this happen.  And if it made Curt happy, then it was worth it.

            Arthur applied every trick he knew to make sure it absolutely did make Curt happy.  Almost immediately, moans of pleasure and a heavy hand on the back of his head told him that he was succeeding admirably.  It didn’t take long before Curt let out a particularly deep groan, and his climax filled Arthur’s mouth.

            He hadn’t even finished swallowing when Arthur heard laughter in the hallway outside.  “What’s this doing here?” a woman’s voice asked.

            Another woman laughed.  “What do you suppose they’re up to in there?”

            Hastily, Arthur replaced the sheets, and moved to the chair near the bed.  He hadn’t quite gotten settled when the door opened and two nurses walked into the room.  They looked like they were biting their lips not to laugh as they looked at Arthur.

            “We’re here to check up on you,” one of them told Curt, picking up the chart that was hung at the foot of his bed.

            Meanwhile, the other was taking his pulse.  “Your heart’s beating a mile a minute!” she quickly exclaimed.

            Curt laughed.  “’Course it is.  Who wouldn’t get excited at seeing two pretty girls coming at him when he’s not wearing any clothes?”

            Both nurses giggled at his flirtatious banter, and kept going about their duties.  Arthur soon found his own heart rate increasing as a third woman entered the room, holding his sign in her hand.

            “Arthur…”  Denise’s voice was a warning tone.

            He got to his feet and ushered her out into the hall.  “What—how—”  Arthur stopped quickly.  What could he possibly ask that would explore even part of his confusion on seeing her here?

            “What’s this about?” she asked, holding up the sign.  “And don’t make any excuses.  I know what your handwriting looks like.”

            “Ah…that’s…just…”  His excuse dribbled to a halt.  He had planned on coming clean at the first opportunity, but somehow in this setting he couldn’t find the words at all.

            “Everyone at the hotel was gossiping that Curt Wild got taken away in an ambulance with some fag he’d been fucking,” Denise said, staring right into his eyes.  Her look was an accusation, daring him to deny it.  “An _English_ fag.”

            Arthur shut his eyes against her gaze, but he couldn’t find any words.  He didn’t want to deny it, as such, but he hated the belittling way she was describing what had been such a beautiful thing.

            “No?  Not gonna deny it even a little bit?”

            Arthur sighed.  “Why bother?” he asked, shaking his head.  “Even if it wasn’t true, you still wouldn’t believe me.”  He still didn’t have the nerve to open his eyes again.

            Denise slapped him.  Hard.  The shock of the blow forced his eyes open.  She was crying.  “That’s it, then?!  You’ve just been using me as a fucking _beard_?!”

            “No!  Denise, I told you I was bisexual on our first date!”

            She crossed her arms with a peevish expression.  “You can’t expect a girl to take something like that seriously.  Men say things like that all the time so they’ll seem deep and mysterious.  They never _mean_ it.”

            “Well, I did.  I’ve slept with more men than women.”

            “You’re disgusting!”

            Arthur winced.  “I’ve heard that before,” he sighed sadly.

            “Maybe this time you should _believe_ it!”

            Arthur shook his head.  “No.  I believed it then.  I know better now.  There’s nothing wrong with me, no matter what you think—no matter what my brother or my father thinks—I’m not the one who’s doin’ something wrong!”

            Denise raised her hand to slap him again, but dropped it again without a strike.  “I just can’t believe you’d betray me like this,” she whimpered, turning away from him.  “I thought you were better than that.”

            “Denise, if you hadn’t been off dancin’ with other men, I probably wouldn’t ‘ave done it,” he sighed.  She’d left him very quickly as soon as they got to the hotel, and her behaviour had made it very clear that she was more interested in the other men than she was in him.  That being the case, how could he _not_ have gone to see Curt from as close as possible?

            “So, what, you thought you’d cheat on me before I could cheat on you?!” Denise demanded, turning back to face him.

            “That’s not what…”  Arthur massaged his temples for a moment, trying to figure out how to explain.  “Look, I…this wasn’t the first time Curt and I…uh…”  He shook his head.  “When I realised he remembered me, that he was still interested, I…I had to go to him.  That first night we had together was the greatest night of my life.”

            Denise’s lips pursed in disgust.  “And yet you expected him to have forgotten you?”

            “A star isn’t necessarily goin’ to remember every fan he shags, but the fan will never forget,” Arthur sighed.  “I don’t want to think about how many other one night stands he’s had in his life.”

            “And how long do you expect it to last _this time_ , then?” Denise asked, a taunting sneer contorting her shapely lips.  “Do you think he’s going to forget all about _all_ those other fans and live only for _you_?”

            “I can only wish for an outcome like that,” Arthur replied sadly.  No matter what Curt had said while they were making love, Arthur wasn’t naïve enough think it was really going to happen so perfectly.  “But I’m not a kid anymore.  I know what I’m doin’.  Even if it’ll still be short-lived, I plan to make it unforgettable.”

            Denise just glared at him for a moment, then let out a heartless laugh.  “You know, there’s a special ring in Hell just for sodomites like you,” she chirped.  “And I can’t _wait_ to hear the anguished screams as you burn in it!”

            She didn’t give him a chance to respond.  Turning on her heel, Denise ran up the corridor and quickly disappeared around a corner.  Miserably, Arthur returned to Curt’s room, where the nurses were standing near the door, looking awkward.  They left as soon as he was out of the way.

            “I guess you could hear all that,” Arthur sighed as he sat down in the chair again.

            “A lot of it, yeah.”  Curt reached out a hand and patted his knee.  “If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t actually had anywhere near as many one night stands as everyone thinks,” he said.

            Arthur smiled at him.  “It does, actually.”  Even if it wasn’t true.

            “So, you weren’t living with her, were you?”

            Arthur shook his head.  “No, I’ve got my own…well, it’s more of a closet than a flat, really…”

            Curt laughed.  “There’s plenty of room in my apartment.  You can sleep in my bed as often as you want…”

            As Arthur moved over to the side of the bed to give Curt a passionate kiss, he could hear a radio playing down the hall.  The disc jockey was introducing the next song:  “This is a brand new single, just released a few days ago.  A new face on the scene, sure to be the next big star.  Here’s Tommy Stone, with ‘My Lover’.”


End file.
